Some One Liners
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: A series of short one-shots from the "Two Doctors, a Nurse, a Detective, and a Scot" verse. John/Sherlock
1. Sherlock and River

There's a knock on the outer door, and Sherlock doesn't look up from the two test tubes in his hand (as if they'll explode if he looks away; they just might). The knock come again, followed by the loud buzzer. _Where is John?_ Sherlock thinks with a minute furrow of his brow. He vaguely remembers the jingle of keys nearly an hour ago, must have gone out.

The knock again. Sherlock doesn't move, instead shouting in a voice that could shake dust from his landlady's ceiling if she'd had any: "MRS. HUDSON!"

No reply. Maybe John had spirited her away with him on whatever flight of fancy had seized him. Sherlock huffed spitefully, but did not move.

"Sherlock," comes a sing-song voice from the street, wafting in through the open front windows, "if you don't open your door, I'm going to blast it in."

Sherlock is at the window in an instant, test tubes miraculously in their holders and not tumbling their contents all over Mrs. Hudson's good floors. "River, you wouldn't _dare_," Sherlock hisses through the window, his curly head poking out through dense curtains.

"Oh, I would, though," the woman says through smirking painted lips.

It takes the work of thirty-three seconds for Sherlock to gallop down the stairs and yank the door open, glaring two holes into her grinning face.

"Diary," he says harshly, holding out one hand.

She rolls her eyes. "Can't I come in?"

"Not until I know when you're from."

"All right, all right," she sighs wistfully (tossing her hair back over her shoulder as she digs in her bag for the blue book). She stares levelly at him when she holds it in the detective's direction. "Where's your boy?"

"I'm not my husband's keeper," he murmurs without thinking.

"Husbands!" River says with a bright smile. "Congratulations, Mister and Mister Holmes."

Sherlock winces, but says nothing more as he flips through the diary. Seeming satisfied, he nods and hands the book back. "All right, come in."

He doesn't bother cleaning up for her, or offering her a seat. She unloops her holster and throws the gun into John's armchair, taking a quick look about the place as Sherlock resumes his position at the kitchen table experiment. River smiles fondly at the mess; the stacks of old newspapers, the empty boxes of nicotine patches, last night's takeaway boxes on Sherlock's desk. Then, taking a seat in Sherlock's chair, she crosses her legs and waits.

"I'm not going to ask what you want," he says at last, adding a bit of the left tube into the right.

"Are you trying to deduce me, Mister Holmes?" River asks, smiling with a cock of her head.

"I wouldn't give you the pleasure, Miss Song." He can't hide the flicker of a smirk.

"It's Torchwood," she says at last.

"There's a surprise," Sherlock murmurs, setting one of the tubes aside to concentrate on the other. "Song and Harkness. I heard you made quite the mess of that business with the spectral dog in Devon."

"I would have the Doctor on it, but he's not answering me at the moment," River says, toying with her hair and trying not to look miffed at the issue.

"Lover's spat?" Sherlock asks, and this time he does smile.

"Oh, you _are_ the world's greatest detective," she utters with mock surprise.

"What does Torchwood want with me?" he asks, finally turning to face her.

"Aren't we going to wait for your husband?" she asks furtively, the corner of her lip curling happily.

"Lover's spat," he reiterates, and he's suddenly moving about and picking up bits of clothing he's left behind. "I take it this has something to do with the disappearance of Miss Carfax?"

River gives a wonderful laugh, re-buckles her gun belt, and they're out the door together in under three minutes.

* * *

><p>AN: Welcome to my Wholock One-Liners! These are going to be several short fics in the "Two Doctors" verse of mine, most of which are too short for their own stories (IMO). Most of these were suggestions given to me over on my tumblr (I'm shoelessone over there, come say hi!) and are awfully tiny. But fun! All the fics will be related to the 'verse, but not in any necessary order (a bit wibbly-wobbly, soz!). So, I hope you enjoy, leave us some love, and don't forget to stay awesome!<p> 


	2. The Two Holmeses

Sometimes, even with masterful pilots like River and Sherlock and even the Doctor behind the console, the TARDIS takes things into her own hands. She may spark and toss her occupants about, the corridors may echo with the grinding sound of gears and the wail of a klaxon. She may not take them where they want to go, but she takes them where they're needed. And right now, as she careens through space and time, tumbling through nebulae and eons, she needs them in 1888.

It's an early, foggy London morning, and John is the first to stick his head out of the TARDIS, wrinkling his nose.

"It's smells right off," he grumbles, peering back inside. "You said Great Exhibition, right?"

"No, the second Great Exhibition. The Greater Exhibition. It's supposed to be 2061. It smells—?" the Doctor starts, coming up behind John and wedging him between himself and the door frame. The Doctor wrinkles his nose when he takes a long breath. "Oh. Oh, no. That's not right at all." He checks his watch (John tries to escape, but the Doctor is focused) with a growing concern furrowing in his forehead. "We should go."

"Why?" Amy asks, crowding into the doorway with them. "Where are we?"

John grabs the Doctor's arm and checks the watch. "London, looks like. 1880s?"

"1888," the Doctor says, yanking his arm back. "Not that it matters, we're leaving."

"Are you scared of Jack the Ripper, or something?" Rory asks, appearing at John's elbow.

"The door is only so big," the Doctor says impatiently. "No, back up, we're going."

"It's the Queen," Sherlock murmurs from behind him, and the smile curling up on his lips is horribly mirthful.

All four wedged in the doorway turn. "What's the Queen?" Rory asks.

"That the Doctor's afraid of," Sherlock replies.

Amy throws a hand over her mouth, can't hide the snorting noise that passes for laughter. John doesn't pretend to hide it, he gives a loud single laugh that echoes in the alley they've landed in.

"I'm not..." They're blessed with the rare sight of the Doctor's face going pink and blotchy in embarrassment. "I'm not... _scared _of her."

"Queen Vic," John laughs, hardly able to breathe around it, "thing of nightmares! What'd she do, Doctor, _disapprove _of you?"

"She created Torchwood for the sole purpose of finding and eradicating the Doctor," Sherlock answers, crossing his arms and looking smug. "Left quite an impression the last time he saw her."

"She was not amused," Amy giggles around her own fingers.

"Really very not," the Doctor grumbles. "Okay, we've had a laugh, let's shuffle back into the TARDIS, please."

"Well, now we've _got _to go," Rory says, matching John's unbridled grin. "Don't we?"

"Definitely," Amy coos, and the Ponds are the first to squeeze out the door and into the fog.

"No!" the Doctor groans. "No, I really _really _don't think we should—What I wouldn't do for a Pond that listens to me! Sherlock, go get them back."

"Go get them back, what?" Sherlock asks, practically seething with self-righteousness.

The Doctor fumes, screws up his lips. "Go get them back _now_."

"I don't think that's what you're looking for," John murmurs, the mood off his husband infectious.

"Go get them back _immediately_," the Doctor almost growls. "I'm not in the mood to play games, and it's bad enough with the two of them out there _touching_ everything. The air doesn't smell right, and if the wrong person gets an eyeful of my time machine we're all going to be arrested and drawn and quartered or whatever brutal capital punishment they use in the 1880s. So go get my Ponds back, Sherlock David Holmes."

Sherlock goes a bit white.

John scoffs. "_David_?"

"Come on, John," Sherlock grumbles, and, taking the shorter man's hand, he stomps out of the TARDIS.

"David! What rubbish is that?" John laughs even louder than before.

"Oh, and Hamish is any better?"

Their bickering voices peter out as they round a corner into the fog, and the Doctor waits. The Doctor waits for a full two-and-a-half minutes before he charges after them. Because he's finally figured out what is so wrong with the air.

* * *

><p>Victorian London in the fog. The gaslight flickers against the close fog, and darkness waits in between. John gives the occasional shout for Amy and Rory, and he hopes to God or whoever bothers to look after them that Sherlock remembers the way back to the TARDIS. Because this isn't the London he knows and loves. This is a dank and dirty London, a London full of dark corners and unmentionables, one moment full of lights and laughter and the next a swath of emptiness and only the sound of fleeing footsteps to show any sign of life in the city at all. Visibility is nearly null, and for all intents and purposes, they're running blind into a city they don't know.<p>

"Watson!" comes a voice from deep within the fog. John's head snaps up, but Sherlock shakes his head. He keeps John close, hands knit together at the fingers, and they keep the the edge of the nearest brick wall. Right. Probably thousands of Watsons in London, this time of year.

"Come, Watson, come!" the voice shouts again, loud baritone echoing in the dingy, empty street. "He'll have got away by the time you catch us up!"

The man who bursts through the fog is the epitome of the Victorian gentleman (or at least it seems to the two twenty-first century men staring him down). Hair slicked back, dark suit and shining shoes. Skidding to a halt from a fierce run. There's a multitude of emotions swirling on his face, not quite the reserved Victorian economy of emotion John had heard about. Those bright, gray eyes that look as though they could see everything if only the fog would clear away. The man's head whips from side to side, but can see little in the thick, rolling fog. He gives a sharp, impatient sigh and stamps a foot.

"Watson!"

To no answer. The sharp eyes fix suddenly on the two of them and sweep across them in hardly an instant. Gray eyes on gray, two pairs of acute sensors recognizing each other and analyzing.

And John can feel the universe tremble.

Sherlock's mouth drops a notch, as if someone had punched him in the middle. John actually intones a breathy "Oh," and he nearly claps a hand to his mouth when it echoes around him louder than he had intended it.

"A fair-haired man with a mustache," the new man snaps, "in a bowler hat, gray suit, a revolver in his right hand."

"No," Sherlock says, and his voice is trembling with the little tremor of excitement that comes with the revelation of a long-hidden clue. "But we _have _seen a man with a green necktie and square-toed brown shoes."

"Excellent! Your doctor friend has a pistol, I advise him to check that it's loaded. This way!" And the excited man dashes away. Sherlock doesn't even ask, only yanks John along after him. The three of them disappear into the fog.

* * *

><p>Amy and Rory, incidentally, find the man with the green necktie and square-toed brown shoes first. Or rather, he finds them. Runs full-barreled into Rory and knocks the nurse to the ground with a yell. They scramble to rearrange their limbs where they belong, and the stranger finds himself first. And claps a pistol to Amy's head when he does.<p>

Rory instantly throws his hands up, showing no sign of force and stumbling over a series of "woah"s and "hold on"s. Amy keeps perfectly still, hissing at Rory to shut up and calm down.

The party is soon interrupted from behind as Sherlock, John, and the tall stranger with the gray eyes arrive. And, as instructed, John has checked his gun, and it's fully loaded and pointed straight-armed at the criminal holding Amy hostage.

"Your game is up, Anderson," the gray-eyed stranger barks. "Cut your losses where they stand and let go of the woman."

"Back off!" the snarling Anderson demands (and Sherlock does notice an odd resemblance between the criminal and the weasel-faced man mucking about modern-day crime scenes). "I'm not afraid to shoot her!"

"Of course not," Sherlock says. "What's another murder?"

Anderson seems taken aback. The gray-eyed stranger flashes Sherlock an appreciative glance. "Yes, our esteemed friend Mister Anderson will find himself encumbered with an overabundance of free time once I find a policeman to properly arrest him."

The criminal attempts a move backward away from John's gun, only to find his way barred by another.

"I have his back," says the man who they find suddenly blocking the rear retreat—a fair-haired man with a mustache in a bowler hat and a gray suit.

"Watson!" comes the oddly jocular voice from the gray-eyed stranger. "You certainly took your time in finding us!"

"I can see how easy it is to find a replacement for me," the man with the mustache chuckles from behind the sight of his revolver.

"Nonsense! Merely a pair of helpful passers-by with a weapon handy for Mister Anderson's apprehension. Have you a clear shot, my dear doctor?"

"Yes," both John and the man with the mustache answer (to which they both start and stare).

Anderson's eyes dart from one man to the other. Realizing defeat, he slowly lowers the gun from Amy's temple. Amy takes the opportunity to snake a hard right hook to Anderson's jaw before she scurries back to Rory's side. John is on the criminal first, kicking the gun away and holding the gun hard and steady—he's joined by the doctor with the mustache, whose arm is similarly rigid as he keeps and eye on Anderson's back as John watches his front.

John's eyes dart up, and he offers a crooked smile. "Where'd you serve?"

The doctor with the mustache mirrors him. "Afghanistan."

John laughs. "Me too."

"Fancy that," Sherlock murmurs under his breath, eyes practically vibrating with pent-up energy at the realizations that threaten to bowl him over.

The same look that's taken up a seat on the face of the gray-eyed stranger.

They get the man Anderson trussed up and subdued in no time, with the two of them working together. Sherlock has made his way to Amy and Rory, checking the former for any injuries despite her insistence that she didn't need any looking after (rather asking if the Doctor had sent Sherlock and John after them because he didn't trust them on their own).

"I suppose I have you to thank for assisting in the capture of this fellow," the doctor with the mustache says, and John gladly holds a hand out to shake his proffered, gloved hand.

"Nobody move!" comes the sudden and unexpectedly authoritative voice of the Doctor. He emerges from the morning fog like a saint from a heavenly bank of clouds. "Nobody touch anything! Or anyone!"

Rory's hands fly off of his wife's shoulder in reply. The Doctor shoos them away.

"Not you. You're fine. For now. Lecture later about not wandering off. But _you two_," he seethes, pointing not at the Ponds but at Sherlock and John. "I knew this would happen. 1888!" he nearly laughs.

The tall man with the gray eyes smiles briefly, an amused flash flitting over otherwise controlled features. "We must have you to thank for the sudden arrival of these helpful gentlemen. And I don't suppose that we could have your name?"

"The Doctor," the Timelord supplies, though his punishing eyes haven't yet left John and Sherlock.

The doctor with the mustache gives a bright laugh. "Well, that makes three of us."

Rory joins with a similar laugh, but cuts himself off almost violently when he happens to glimpse the unhappy look in the Doctor's eye.

"We should get going back to the TARDIS, then, Doctor?" Amy suggests once she picks up on Rory's uneasiness.

"You should know better," the Doctor breathes, full of fatherly disappointment that stings Sherlock harder than he had thought it might. "Do you know what you could've done?"

"I had no intention—" Sherlock begins (there's almost a twinge of pain in that voice), but the Doctor is quick to interrupt.

"I've had enough paradoxes to last me a good couple lifetimes," the Doctor growls. "Back to the box, both of you."

"The Doctor," says the tall stranger suddenly, cutting in with a wry smile cut onto his placid face. "The description doesn't match precisely, but there can be no mistaking eyes such as yours. And your red-headed companion mentioned the word TARDIS—it's not altogether unfamiliar to me."

The Doctor freezes, and his eyes (old eyes) make the jump from one Holmes to the other.

"Sherlock Holmes," he says with the smallest nod of his head. "I suspect you know precisely who I am, just as well as I know who you are."

Amy gasps, slaps a hand to her mouth to keep it in.

"I've been chasing the most dangerous man in Europe all across this merry city, but no man's name is as highly volatile as yours, Doctor." Sherlock Holmes steeples his his fingers at his mouth, and suddenly it's Rory's turn to react (a sharp _Oh! _that he doesn't even bother to stifle). "Were I a more patriotic man, I'd turn you in with Anderson."

Watson's eyes dart from Holmes to the Doctor.

"And as for your companions, I must thank you for the use of them. The man with the gun has been most helpful. A Watson to match the one I lost in the fog."

John and Watson latch eyes. The latter takes an unsure step backward.

"Watson, I think it's best if we forget this little interlude, however amusing," Holmes says after a long, tense moment, clapping his hands together to break the silence. "Let the Doctor and his merry band be on their way." The clever, sharp smile curls up one edge of the man's mouth. "I believe I hear the footstep of a man on patrol, your retreat should be beat at a quick march—northeast, if I'm correct in thinking your _box _was left near Earls Court."

The Doctor doesn't say anything more. Scoots the Ponds on ahead of him, glancing behind him to be sure the other two follow as instructed. John starts off, but slows when he finds his husband lingering. The two Holmes stare hard at one another, a quiet mingling of gazes.

Then, Sherlock grins. That manic, wonderful grin that John loves more than anything. "Good morning, Mister Holmes," Sherlock says.

"And to you, Mister Holmes," the tall man with the piercing gray eyes replies.

Sherlock scoops John's hand into his as he trots off after the Doctor, into the dissipating fog that the morning has come to swallow up. Only seconds later, the sound of police whistles hits their ears.

"That was... impossibly weird," Rory says as the TARDIS doors close behind them.

"There were two of them," Amy continues (stepping back from Sherlock and John like they've caught fire).

"Like the world needs another Sherlock," Rory adds. "No offense," comes a second later, much quieter.

The Doctor is silent at the console. They haven't taken off yet. He's not even moving. Just leaning both arms on the console, hanging his head between them as if catching his breath. John moves forward first, because Sherlock is frozen (frozen in place because the Doctor is disappointed in him, something he never thought would wreck him as completely and utterly as it has).

"Doctor?" John asks, testing the waters. "Look, we're sorry, we didn't know who he was—"

"It was brilliant, though," the Doctor says, his eyes bright and suddenly full of joy. As if he's liable to jump the both of them and wrangle them into a fierce embrace at any moment (not unusual). "Oh, if you'd actually shook his hand, I don't even know what would have happened. Probably some sort of awful paradox where all of time might've come collapsing down on our heads, but that was so... _cool!_" He grins, which finally prompts the ice to melt from Sherlock's joints. The detective breathes, smiles haggardly, and joins his Doctor at the console.

"Forgiven?" he asks.

"Oh, no, of course not," the Doctor replies. "You're all in trouble, and I'm very cross." He doesn't sound cross in the slightest.

"I'll make the tea, then," Rory says, popping off for the kitchen.

And they carry on with their day as if they hadn't nearly folded time in upon itself by putting two Holmeses in the place.

* * *

><p>AN: written for my lovely wifey theraggedyhipster on tumblr for her birthday! She gave me, oh I dunno, THE BEST PROMPT EVER. And just to say, canon Holmes has pretty much just evolved to be Jeremy Brett in my head, so if you sense similarities, it's because they're the same person. Oh gosh, this is the most fun. Ever. I don't even have words. HOO. Anyway, thanks so much for reading, leave us some love, and above all else STAY AWESOME!<p> 


	3. Mycroft and the Doctor

Mycroft knows when a penny drops in Whitehall. He knows who's said what to whom, and where. And in which smoky rooms the scandals are happening and where they're being glossed over. He knows more underground and invisible agencies than most civilians know their above-board politicians. Mycroft has toured the Torchwood facility at Cardiff (had a few things to say on workplace conduct, and only chuckled derisively when Captain Jack attempted an innuendo), and had even gone overnight to their base in America to smooth a little something over at Area 51. Nothing he liked to brag about, naturally, these weren't the sort of things you tended to brag about (out loud, at least; a few of the men at the Diogenes were in it with him, and they could laugh about escaped aliens over a good cigar in a room with drawn blinds all they wanted).

It seemed that Mycroft Holmes knew the movements of everyone and everything in Britain, and in Europe at large. So it was frankly alarming when a man appeared in his office at the club with no proper warning.

Mycroft, however, hardly spares the stranger a glance. "The Doctor, isn't it?" he asks, his eyes on the bowtie. "The Stetson is a marked improvement over that garish thing you wore to the service."

"Just call it a wedding," the Doctor replies, sauntering slowly into the office. "We all do."

"And how _is _my younger brother?" Mycroft asks, raising eyebrows in the Timelord's direction. "Not too much of a nuisance, I hope. I would hate to have to clean up his messes in other times as well as this one."

The Doctor doesn't laugh. In fact, the man's normally expressive face seems locked up and horribly tight. He's most definitely not smiling. Hands in the pockets of his long coat, he utters a sigh before he comes to rest in front of Mycroft's desk.

"I hear you're the man to come to when you need a favor," the Doctor says lowly.

"I don't do the washing, if that's what you're after," Mycroft replies, eying the Doctor up and down with a tut at the state of his travel-worn clothes.

The Doctor straightened slightly, proudly. Adjusted his lapels, and began again. "I need you to... talk to Sherlock for me."

"If he would allow me." Mycroft nearly breaks his stoicism to smirk in a condescending way.

"He'll allow you," the Doctor cuts in, "if you say you have something from me. Which you will. If you'd be quiet for just a minute." Shakes his head, leans one hand on the desk. "Is _obstinacy _hereditary?"

"Sometimes I wonder," Mycroft supplies, and he begins to leaf through the nearest file.

"All right, listen," the Doctor says. "There are certain... unavoidable things in everyone's lives. Like growing up, and baths, and well, _dying_."

This gets Mycroft's attention. "Is something wrong with Sherlock?"

"No, no," the Doctor says quickly. "No, he's fine, I'm sure. It's my problem, really."

Mycroft pins the Doctor under a startlingly familiar gaze. He finally finds Mycroft's full attention on him, and he realizes why the man refuses to use it too much—it's jarring to feel the full weight of deduction slam him in the chest without warning.

"Why won't you see Sherlock, if you're so intent on dying, Doctor?" Mycroft drawls, and he returns to his work as if he hadn't just read the entire situation from the Timelord.

"It's not that I don't want to see him," the Doctor says quickly, dropping his eyes. "Nothing would be better right now than a sit with the boys in front of the fire with a tin of biscuits and maybe a hug if John's not too busy, but no. I can't see them because... goodbyes are very, very hard. And I couldn't stand to see the look on either of their faces when I have to say it."

Mycroft utters a noise that may have been a dry laugh. "You have a problem with stubbornness all your own, Doctor."

"I do not," the Timelord protests.

"So, you want me to take your farewells to Baker Street for you." Mycroft says—it's not a question, Mycroft hardly has to ask questions of anyone.

"Please," the Doctor says with a horrible, defeated tone of voice. "And. And, if you don't mind." He reaches into his coat, and when his hand reappears, there's a dark blue envelope in his hand. "It's for both of them. And if you do read it, be nice and seal it up again when you're done, Mycroft."

"Naturally," the man behind the desk says with a false smirk. He takes the proffered envelope and gives it a quick once-over. And, when he returns his gaze level to the space across the desk, the Timelord has gone. Completely vanished, leaving only the sound of the TARDIS dematerializing into the vortex behind him.

Mycroft shakes his head, and he breaks the seal on the envelope.

* * *

><p>AN: written during a livewrite (in which I open up a googledoc and folks can watch me write or join in the fun) when people kept correcting my grammar. This is partially thanks to trulybliss on tumblr, who said I hadn't done enough Mycroft. This is for you, blissy! As always, thanks for reading, leave us some love, and don't forget to STAY AWESOME!<p> 


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